A Cheating Preacher - Poem by Ambrose Bierce

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Munhall, to save my soul you bravely try,Although, to save my soul, I can't say why.'Tis naught to you, to me however muchWhy, bless it! you might save a million suchYet lose your own; for still the 'means of grace'That you employ to turn us from the placeBy the arch-enemy of souls frequentedAre those which to ensnare us he invented!I do not say you utter falsehoods-IWould scorn to give to ministers the lie:They cannot fight-their calling has estopped it.True, I did not persuade them to adopt it.But, Munhall, when you say the Devil dwellsIn all the breasts of all the infidelsMaking a lot of individual HellsIn gentlemen instinctively who shrinkFrom thinking anything that you could think,You talk as I should if some world I trodWhere lying is acceptable to God.I don't at all object-forbid it Heaven!That your discourse you temperately leavenWith airy reference to wicked soulsCursing impenitent on glowing coals,Nor quarrel with your fancy, blithe and fine,Which represents the wickedest as mine.Each ornament of style my spirit eases:The subject saddens, but the manner pleases.But when you 'deal damnation round' 'twere sweetTo think hereafter that you did not cheat.Deal, and let all accept what you allot 'em.But, blast you! you are dealing from the bottom!